


cause everyday i try to live within myself (i want to die better than i was born)

by sammyspreadyourwings



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Brian May's 1974 Hepatitis Diagnosis, Communication, Depressed Brian May, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt Brian May, Late at Night, M/M, Protective Roger Taylor (Queen), Sad Brian May, Sad Roger Taylor (Queen), Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Sick Brian May, Stream of Consciousness, ask to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyspreadyourwings/pseuds/sammyspreadyourwings
Summary: Brian is having issues building up his confidence and getting back into the swing of things.
Relationships: Brian May/Roger Taylor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 91





	cause everyday i try to live within myself (i want to die better than i was born)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I was in a super bad mood yesterday so it is kind of a vent fic!
> 
> Apologies in advance and heed the tags!

Brian throws the pencil against the wall. It seems that since coming home from the hospital, everything that he has written is completely awful. He can just picture what the others would say about it. That it’s too sad, too slow, too mopey. That it is the same exact thing that he has written a hundred times before in the same what that he has written it a hundred times before.

He wants to remove the struggle of the songwriting process off the desk. Only that swiping the desk clean and erasing his failures takes more energy than he possesses. Maybe he can leave his guitar here and take off to the country never to be seen again. Brian doesn’t want to think that his time in the hospital somehow ruined his ability to be a musician but he doesn’t know why everything he writes turns to shit and why he gets tired of playing after only a few minutes.

His mind is still muddled by pain medication. Brian tightens his fist on the desk. His right hand isn’t gripping as well as it used to. The one he nearly lost and maybe this is his exchange. You get to keep your arm but you still won’t be able to play guitar as well as you have.

If that was the case then he wonders why he bothered even coming from the hospital at all.

The thought causes the rest of his brain to stop like a needle falling off of a record. Brian stares numbly to the record player in his room, only to realize that the needle had in fact fallen off the track. He should be grateful that this isn’t a record he particularly cares about. Trumpets are far from his favorite instrument, but he had thought that maybe exposing him to different sounds might make his music better.

He stands, stumbling over his feet and then staring at them as though he doesn’t know how they got there. Brian presses a palm to his forehead and presses it into the bridge of his nose. The pain grounds him slightly.

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._ The needle is skipping. Brian goes to the record player to keep it from damaging the record anymore. There is a thin white line that runs through the center of it and he offers a tiny apology to the record for ruining it.

He picks it up and sets it back in the vinyl writing a note to himself to see if he can maybe salvage it. Once that’s done he stares at the warzone that has become his writing desk. Papers are scattered around and the last few debris of pencils. He runs a hand through his hair, only to realize how greasy and tangled his curls have become.

Maybe he should shower?

Brian is surprised to see the rest of the band isn’t awake until he glances at his watch only to see that it’s sometime past too late in the morning. He thinks that it might read as 3 something, but he doesn’t want to accidentally blind himself with the far too bright green light when he has been squinting at papers through moonlight all… afternoon?  
Vaguely he remembers Roger forcing toast into his mouth along with a glass of water and his medication.

The toast swirls uncomfortably in his stomach and he picks up the pace to the restroom. Barely making it as he doubles over the toilet. He sticks his head further in the bowl than he normally would to try and muffle the sounds.

Brian really doesn’t want them hovering over him and making him feel like he is more of a failure than he already is. He goes to the downstairs bathroom because the only people that might here him are Paul, who usually leaves the band to their own devices and John who can sleep through a hurricane.

He bites his cheek hard enough that his mouth is filled with a copper tang. Brian shakes his head. Its fine everyone has a songwriting funk.

_But not everyone almost causes their band to lose their recording contract._

Brian closes his eyes and stops, pressing his head against the wall. He shakes and when the first sob bubbles in his throat he reaches down and pinches the skin on his wrist. He hisses at the pain and drops it before he reaches down and pinches it again.

There is a creak from further in the house which makes him pause and hurry to his destination.

Once inside he presses his back against the wall and starts pinching his wrist again. Each time he pinches he lets out a tiny hiss, and looking down he sees the reddened crescent moons, which are starting to bloom a violent shade of purple.

After a few more minutes the shaking has completely stopped. He strides to the shower and turns it on, careful to keep the nozzle from getting into the slight bit of warm water. Brian steps into the shower fully clothed.

_You want to shake. Here’s a fucking reason._ He thinks.

The cold-water sinks into his skin and the buzzing in his head grows louder than the stream of water. He swears that he can see the air from his lungs, but he knows that the air temperature is much too warm for that.

Brian drops down to the tub pushing the stopper into the drain and extending his legs out the furthest that they can go in the tiny space. Slowly the water rises around his body, the wet cotton of his sleep clothes clinging to him and making it feel like his entire body is restricted,

He shivers as the water pools on his abdomen and fills the spaces that his tiny body cannot. He must look more bird-like than he has ever has. A tiny naked bird that’s purposeless because he can’t write songs and he’s a fucking musician.

Brian straightens his legs higher against the tub allowing his chest to completely sink under the water. His legs are trembling and he can feel the chill of the water sapping what little strength he has managed to maintain.

He slips a little further and now his neck is under. His curls cling to his skin and he closes his eyes, a little more exhausted than he had been while writing. The mania of trying to not be a waste of space had kept him from sleeping and he thinks that John was beginning to notice and trying to help by keeping the coffee away from him and encouraging long breaks.

Or maybe he doesn’t want to see poor fragile Brian break again and maybe coffee is for bandmates that are actually useful.

Brian sinks a little lower and his chin is touching the water and he idly flicks the nozzle more towards the cold end. He knows it’s impossible, but he wonders if ice cubs can form like they do in the cartoons.

His fingers find the skin of his wrist and pinches again. Between the coldness of the water and the stinging of the pinches, his brain falls into a slightly foggy area. One where he doesn’t notice himself sliding further down into the water until his eyes are watering from the chill. He breathes in the cold hair and he can feel the sluggishness of his body as it reacts to the cold.

“Christ, why is this floor so wet?”

The water muffles the voice, but he still knows that tone to be Roger.

He senses the change in light and hands are wrapping around his body and yanking him from the water. Brian lets out a tiny bark of air as his side hits the porcelain. He opens his eyes only to close them again at the brightness.

Hands are running up and down his body and he feels words but he doesn’t want to spend the energy processing it yet. The hands are tugging at his soaked clothes. He does feel the water on the floor and maybe he should have turned the water off. The air brushes against his skin and the shivering almost feels like it had increased.

Brian lays against something warm and now something rough rubs against his back. He furrows his brow only to realize that it is a towel. Also that his shirt has somehow been pulled off of him.

“Bri, Bri,” Roger whispers.

A hand goes on his face. It almost feels like a flame with how different their body temperatures are. He keeps his eyes close trying to ground himself and warm up and all of this is taking too much energy and he doesn’t get why Roger pulled him out of the bathtub.

“Brimi,” Roger tries again.

Brian focuses on the towel scraping into his back.

“Wise men say, only fools rush in.”

He presses his cheek against Roger’s chest and lets the vibrations poke through the fog in his brain. Roger isn’t singing in his usual voice; it is much lower and softer but it keeps that rasp that Brian loves. Slowly he feels the cold water evaporate off him or it gets picked up by the towel.

Roger finishes the song, “Brian?”

Brian doesn’t respond verbally but he flicks his eyes up. Roger’s hair is sleep-messed but he is wide awake.

“Bri? Roger calls again.

He reaches up and presses his fingers into the soft skin of whatever body part he can reach. Roger’s fingers skim along his hand, tutting.

“Babe,” Roger says.

He flinches at the tone.

“Shh, no, no, I’m not mad,” Roger rubs the tender skin on his wrist, “I’m a little upset, yes. I don’t want to see you hurting.”

Brian shrinks into himself, pulling his hand away from Roger’s skin and folding into his lap. If he was less exhausted he might be embarrassed.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

He remembers promising that he would faintly after the last time Roger caught him like this. Truthfully, Brian hadn’t thought about going to Roger.

“It’s okay,” Roger soothes.

His thumb rubs under Brian’s eyes. To his surprise, he isn’t crying, but perhaps that is not a good thing.

“What brought this on, hm?” Roger coos.

Brian shakes his head. Roger reaches down and rubs the towel before wrapping it around his waist.

“Wanna go to my bedroom?”

He nods.

Roger shifts away but keeps his hands on Brian. He stands slowly, and Brian follows the movement. Now the shaking has lessened. Roger pulls off his soaked pants as well, leaving them to sop up the water left on the floor.

Brian moves his hands to keep the towel around him. The water shuts off, and he doesn’t know how Roger moved around him. He stares blankly and Roger wraps an arm around his hip and gently guides him out and to the steps.

He doesn’t really notice that he is moving until his shins are bumping against the bed. Roger turns him around and gently guides him to the bed, but instead of pushing him back so that he is laying down Roger crouches down between his legs and looks at him. His hands are on Brian’s knees and he is just watching.

“What brought that on, love?”

“I’m useless,” Brian answers robotically, “I can’t write songs. I can’t play guitar without getting exhausted instantly. Why am I even in this band?”

Roger squeezes his knees and then lifts his hands to Brian’s face.

“Listen to me, Brian Harold May, you are not useless,” Roger puts the tiniest amount of pressure on his face.

He tries to pull away from the sensation, but Roger only lessens his grip instead. Brian closes his eyes instead. Roger pops his lips.

“Your songs are so extraordinary. You’re so talented,” Roger says softly, “and maybe you’re going through a rough patch. We all have those. You were sick, and it takes a long time to heal.”

Brian shakes his head or tries to, but Roger’s hands keep him from moving that much. He raises his hands to press against Roger’s, which he is sure Roger prefers to pinching the skin there. They’re burning and aching and he doesn’t want to know what they look like tomorrow.

“B?”

“I’m sorry, Rog.”

“What are you apologizing for? How you feel?”

He nods.

“Don’t, you know I don’t want you hurting yourself, but you feel how you feel.”

Brian makes a noise of confusion. Roger’s fingers press gently into his face.

“And I will always want you to know your value because to me you’re the most valuable thing on this earth. We all have good days and bad days.”

He shakes and pulls his feet up from the floor and sets it on the edge of the bed. Roger raises up and sits on the bed next to him judging by the movement and the sinking of the bed. Brian leans against Roger, and they slowly drop back onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and lets Roger press against his back.

“You’ve got to work with me, Bri,” Roger whispers, “I can’t keep waking up and hoping that I won’t find you drowned in the bathtub.”

“Wasn’t trying to drown,” Brian slurs.

“Mm,” Roger hums, “but think about what it looked like to me. Please B, you’ve got to let me help.”

“I want to try to,” he finally says.

Roger kisses the back of his neck, “thank you for trying, my stars and moon.”

Brian smiles faintly, “I’ll try anything for you, my sun and sea.”

“But really, promise me you’ll wake me up?”

He shrugs.

“Or come to bed at the same time as me?”

“Do I have to try and sleep?”

“Try, preferably, but just be in bed with me.”

“Why, Rog, at least buy me dinner first,” he huffs a laugh.

It feels awkward in his throat, but at least his emotions are starting to filter through his head.

“Sure,” Roger smiles and kisses his neck again, “we haven’t had a date night in a bit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, I needed to vent things and this is what came of it.


End file.
